


Tales from the World of the Young Falcon

by Salamon2



Series: Rise and Fall of the Baratheons [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Birth Order, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Worldbuilding, Young Falcon Universe, short story collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories, one shots, character studies, worldbuilding, and side stories that I was inspired to write set in this alternate universe. They are tangential to the main plot, but occur because of the main plot. One doesn't strictly need to have read So Soars the Young Falcon or A Pack of Wolves to read these, but they will make a lot more sense if you have.</p><p>Chapter One - Jocelyn Stark Royce receives news of the death of her younger brother Brandon, ten years too late and sets out to return to Winterfell for consolation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tales from the World of the Young Falcon

**JOCELYN – 297 AC**

 

Jocelyn Stark Royce could hardly believe her old ears when the news at long last had reached her at Ashdown Keep. Her half-brother, Brandon, was dead. It wasn’t just that though, but he’d been dead for a decade and none of her Stark kin had thought to inform her of his death.

 

_They likely think me in the ground already._

 

Rickard had sent word upon Ned’s death, but that could have been hardly avoided given that Rickard had taken up Lordship of Winterfell and the North. But Brandon… her babe of a brother, whose mother’s death had sent her own father into enough grief to be put off further marriage, whom she had had the care of raising like a mother, and had disappeared into the damn Wolfswood without a damn word. To say that she was angry with her blood kin would have been superficially true—more than that she was hurt. Was she now so old so as to be considered beyond consideration?

 

It wasn’t like Rickard’s Ned didn’t know she existed. Rickard had sent his Ned to be fostered at the Eyrie with the partial purpose of coming to know her descendants and maintain family ties, spread out as they were amongst the Waynwoods, her branch of the Royces which survived through her grandson also called Ned, the Corbrays—as worthless as they were having inherited their mother’s willfulness—and her favorite grandson, Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars... of all her kin, he reminded her of her father the most—not in looks or any kind of superficiality, but in strength of character and honor. He may follow the damn Seven, but he had the honor of a Northman. But still, Rickard’s Ned knew she had yet lived when he’d been fostered with Lord Arryn. She’d even visited the boy named in honor of her elder brother to see if he were anything like his namesake, and to give the poor lad a sense of a pack in the South—and remind Lord Arryn in a friendly manner that a good number of his more important bannermen were kin to the wolf pup he’d taken in to foster. She recalled Rickard’s Ned being rather quiet and polite, calling her Lady Royce or Great Aunt Jocelyn instead of Joce as her brothers had. There was none of Edwyle’s warmth or affection in the lad it seemed—at least until she had come across the pup playing with the fawn that would grow to be a lordly Stormlander stag in the courtyard a few days before she was to return to Ashdown Keep. Ned was getting into mischief by planning on dumping a pile of snow from the ramparts on top of the gangly young falcon that she now called Lord Arryn. She’d seen in that unguarded instant Edwyle’s ease and playfulness, and then it was gone when his grey eyes had met hers, and he’d frozen immediately upon sight.

 

_“Lady Royce,” he’d deferred politely._

_She sighed and before she had a chance to say anything else, Ned was promising, “We’ll clean away the snow.”_

_“Whatever for?” protested the young stag._

_Ned then cast a look to his foster brother which Jocelyn recalled Edwyle once giving Brandon when a very similar prank they’d attempted to pull on the Master at Arms in Winterfell until she’d caught them in the act._

_She couldn’t help herself then, as she burst out in laughter. Confused, the two boys looked at her oddly._

_“Gods, if you’re going to do something like this, at least do it right and prepare a little first,” she’d scolded good-naturedly._

_Young Ned had stared at her then, completely caught off guard by her words, while the young Baratheon looked rather surprised but also pleased._

_“Forgive me, but your grandfather and great-uncle once did something similar,” she explained as she caught control of herself again, and then challenged, “After you’ve pushed the snow on top of young Denys’ head, what do you plan to do?”_

_Her quiet great nephew remained silent, though she could tell that he was embarrassed to have not planned ahead that far._

_“Run away of course!” announced the future King._

_Smirking, and recalling once how Edwyle had been eager to teach tactics to Brandon as she had listened in, she added, “A smarter idea would be to continue the attack so your enemy doesn’t have the opportunity to rally and give a counter to yours.”_

_“What do you mean?” questioned Ned._

_“Figure it out for yourselves,” teased Jocelyn as she then departed the courtyard. That evening a soaked Denys Arryn, Ned, and Robert all huddled around a fireplace, talking as they warmed and dried themselves from a large snowball fight. Lord Jon had come up to her and asked her how she had managed to get the boys to talk to Denys, whom they had been on awkward terms with up until that point._

_“A she-wolf knows her pack, Jon,” she had answered coyly before retiring to bed._

 

Aye, the new Lord Ned knew of her existence to be sure… and yet he had not thought to inform her of Brandon’s death by raven. There was only one thing for it. She would have to go to Winterfell herself and demand an answer from her great nephew. The journey would be arduous to say the least, but not impossible—and in truth she actually looked forward to the idea of it. She’d travel from Ashdown to Runestone and visit with her dear Benedict’s nephew, and then from Runestone to Gulltown, spend some time with her Ned and her great-grandson, then take a boat to White Harbor and travel from there up the White Knife to Castle Cerwyn where she’d make the rest of her journey by horse along the King’s Road. It would take but a moon at the very least, two moons at most if she tarried too long on her visits.

 

Thus she made her plans known to everyone but Winterfell—she wanted that arrival specifically to be a surprise. It was the height of summer—the longest summer in living memory—and even if it turned to winter upon her arrival, she doubted very much that they’d begrudge one old she-wolf a gnarled old bone to gnaw on as an extra mouth to feed. She didn’t eat much anymore, her appetite having lessened considerably in the past few years since her grandson Bernar Royce had died fighting in the Stepstones, and she had managed somehow by the gods’ good grace to have avoided going grey entirely, with her hair going a shocking white color only within the last five years.

 

She took the wheelhouse from Ashdown to Runestone, and arrived within two days of her having set out instead of the customary day’s travel it should have taken. Her servants had slowed the procession down, for fear that too much jostling about would break her like some fragile jug from Yi Ti. At this rate she would reach Winterfell in half a year’s time—something she was determined to not have happen. She may be an old she-wolf decked in runes, but she was still a she-wolf if ever there was one!

 

Her nephew, Yohn, greeted her as he always did, with great reverence for her age, despite Ashdown being sworn to him directly. The last time she’d been at Runestone had been for the funeral of Yohn’s mother and her goodsister, Lady Barbra Brune Royce. They had been quite close ever since they had married Gregar and Benedict respectfully, each clinging to the other as fellow daughters of proud First Men houses, and friends. In a lot of ways, Barbra had been more than just a friend, but a true sister to her. Even when ill health and distance had prevented them traveling to sit and talk together, they had sent letters by ravens extensively… gods was it truly only two years ago? Time flew by far too quickly for her liking in summer.

 

She was first introduced to the sight of Yohn’s grandson, young Yorwyck, son of Andar, his barely pregnant mother, Neryssa, holding his hand tightly all through the introduction.

 

Jocelyn had been invited to the wedding, but had been too overcome with the grief over Barbra’s death to visit Runestone so soon, and had begged her excuses with ill health—though Edwyle had gone in her stead that she’d seen to.

 

After a refreshing afternoon nap spent resting her aching old bones followed by a rather energetic display at dinner by her great-great nephew Yorwyck, who had decided to gift her with a present of a milky white stone he had found, she and Yohn retired to a corner of Runestone’s ancient Great Hall near a roaring fireplace.

 

“It wasn’t so long ago you were running about like that lad,” recalled Jocelyn.

 

“Was I? My mother always said I was a rather obedient babe,” said Yohn, who’d already reached his chair, but waited for her to sit before doing so himself.

 

“Aye, obedient, when you felt like it,” teased Jocelyn as she settled into the chair provided for her by the fireplace.

 

The servant filling their goblets with wine snickered at Jocelyn’s comments, to which Yohn gave the portly lad a meaningful glare, which quieted the boy before he departed. When the lad had retreated to refill the flagon, Yohn smirked rather pleased with himself in a way Jocelyn could only roll her eyes. That was one thing Jocelyn would never understand about southrons no matter how long she lived in the south—the way they saw themselves as so high above their servants and smallfolk was simply too foreign an idea for her to ever fully grasp. But then southrons didn’t know winter like the North or the Starks did.

 

It was Yohn who began the conversation once again, after having finished taking a long sip of the Arbor gold.

 

“Will Edwyle then at long last take up position as the Knight of Ashdown?” questioned Yohn.

 

Lady Jocelyn tutted, “It is something I intend to speak with him on when I see him. This queer business of being Lord Justice of Gulltown was fine when Bernar was alive to inherit Ashdown, but he should have put it aside years ago.”

 

At this Lord Yohn sat closer to the edge of his seat. “You intend to continue on to Gulltown?! Aunt Joce, you’re making quite a journey for one your age,” commented Lord Yohn.

 

She scoffed, “You’re one to speak of doing things at one’s age—when you still compete in tourneys!”

 

“I’m younger than Ser Brynden Tully—and he has a whole school of fishes, lordlings, princelings, and boys about him that he teaches!”

 

“You’re younger than him, aye, but not by much,” cackled Jocelyn.

 

Lord Yohn frowned but eventually gave in to joining her laughter.

 

If she thought the journey to Runestone had been bad, the remaining journey by wheelhouse to Gulltown was even worse. She got into a long debate with Jormyn about how fast she could stand to travel, eventually winning out when he consented to at the very least go at a light trot, instead of the slow walk that they’d been at before. Arriving in Gulltown proved to be an experience she did not enjoy. The city was far too crowded for her liking, and it was beginning to acquire an odor about itself rather like King’s Landing.

 

Jocelyn arrived at the tiny but tall manse that Edwyle had bought for his home in Gulltown. It was made of the same red stone that decorated nearly all of Gulltown, but done so in a much simpler fashion than the rest of the ornate manses that rose above the street. Ned did not greet her upon exiting the wheelhouse, instead his steward Galbart Gull did. He made apologies for her grandson, stating that he had some business to attend to with the lordling in charge of the customs house, and he escorted her up the polished stone steps to the guest chambers on the third floor. She had changed out of her traveling clothes and freshened up just when the maid that had been assigned to her arrived to help her with those very things. With a determined tut of her tongue she insisted on being taken to Ned’s solar—or study as the serving girl was apt to call it. Down the staircase to the second floor, past the tiny room which must have passed for a hall, and around a balcony overlooking a serene courtyard where she heard her great-grandson squealing with laughter, then did she at long last arrive at Ned’s solar or study as it was called. Upon the doors she saw the traditional crest for House Royce with an added grey direwolf couchant at the nombril. The servant went in before to announce her arrival.

 

As the girl entered, Jocelyn caught wind of some of what Ned was saying to his guest, “I merely find it intriguing is all, that so many of your friends appear before me in corruption suits, that is all. If I were you, I’d think very carefully on who I choose to be my friend.”

 

His guest spoke with a slight lilt to his speech that Jocelyn couldn’t quite place as he responded with, “And since we’re being perfectly honest, Ser Edwyle, I’d suggest the same for you as a _friendly_ reminder.”

 

“What is it Gladys?” barked Ned.

 

The girl answered, “Forgive me, Ser, but her Ladyship has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”

 

“I can see you have family business to attend to. I shall see myself out,” spoke Ned’s guest and the next moment she was face to face with a short man, very slight of build but with sharp features. He had grey-green eyes and a pointed beard that matched his dark hair had more than a few strands of grey in it, despite his otherwise youthful looking appearance. He wore light green silks with a silver pin of a mocking bird quite prominently placed upon his doublet.

 

_No doubt he dyes his hair to make himself appear older._

 

The man with a sigil she did not recognize—likely new blood—took a sweeping bow and spoke with his once again unplaceable lilt, “Lady Royce, a pleasure to meet you at last.”

 

Recalling her manners she held out her hand to be kissed, which the man did in a manner almost too gallant.

 

“Indeed, and you are?” she asked.

 

“Petyr Baelish, son and heir to Lord Jasper Baelish of the Fingers," spoke the man with a voice as smooth as silk.

 

Jasper Baelish of the Fingers… she recalled a boy about her youngest girl, Rhea’s age, who’d been all muscle and handsome of face, who had wooed Rhea quite easily at a tournament with a smile and a lily. Benedict had been rather unhappy with the man’s history—his grandfather had been a Braavosi sellsword in employment of the Corbrays, and his father a landless hedge knight. The Royces as a family were notably averse to mixing with those they deemed too “new blooded”, a grudge that went back to the days of the Andal invasion. On that alone, Benedict had insisted upon betrothing their five and ten nameday girl to the Knight of Ninestars. She recalled him grumbling “he may be an Andal, but at least he’s not right off the boat.” She had had to comfort her girl after the tear-strewn argument her father had had with her over the marriage. Ser Sydney Templeton was fair of face and very gallant, but Rhea found fault with him wherever she turned, and continued to do so even after having said her vows. Her stubbornness had kept her from having a good marriage, with her only having one child by Sydney and refusing to give him any others out of spite. It was one of the regrets that Jocelyn had had that Rhea’s marriage hadn’t been handled better. But this Baelish was nothing like his father. She had heard that the man had married a wealthy Gulltown merchant’s daughter—Alayne she believed the girl had been named—with whom he’d had a pair of sons and a little girl. She recalled seeing Petyr’s brother, Hoster, at a tourney her nephew had held once at Runestone, and from what she heard, his daughter had married well for a petty lord in his position—marrying the late Lord Lynderly’s son and giving him plenty of children. She had not heard whether his heir had married or no, but his two younger siblings certainly had.

 

Still there was something off about what he said, and she addressed it immediately, “Isn’t your house’s sigil the head of the titan of Braavos?”

 

Petyr’s smile strained for an instant before he answered, “For my father and brother, aye, but I prefer to make my own mark in the world, my lady. Good day.”

 

_And no doubt try and hide your Essosi origins. Pity he has little sense of family pride… a banner is a mark of honor—no matter its origins—and the hedge knight who’d saved Lord Jasper’s life had been extremely honorable._

 

She put young Petyr out of her mind though as she entered to speak with Edwyle. Her Ned had a few features which suggested the Stark look about him, grey eyes and a long face to mix with his Royce black hair. He kept his chin clean shaved—a new fashion that she’d seen a few men of the city boast that made him look like a boy. Unlike Kyle, who had taken after Benedict and Ryden in looking completely Royce, and Bernar who had taken after his Shett mother, Edwyle was most like her in looks amongst all her descendants. It had allowed her the opportunity and excuse to spoil Ryden’s youngest with presents and tales that her nursemaid Nan had told her. Jocelyn wondered if Nan still lived… she doubted it… the woman would be nearing a hundred.

 

“I received your missive, but I could hardly believe you were actually coming,” sighed Edwyle as he stood waiting for her to take a seat. He dismissed the serving girl with promises of bringing a cordial for her enjoyment.

 

“It would be impolite to promise a visit and then not arrive when agreed,” she tutted.

 

Ned snorted at her response and she smirked and gave her grandson a kiss on each cheek before taking to her seat.

 

“Have you come then to pressure me into returning to Ashdown then?” rounded her Ned as he took his own seat. He’d always been quick of mind.

 

“As your brother’s heir, you should establish yourself in your lands," she began.

 

“They’re your lands,” he interjected.

 

“That is awfully sweet of you to say, but I only hold it in your name… are you ashamed of Ashdown?”

 

“No, Nana! It’s just… well… I have built for myself a life here in Gulltown. I am Lord Denys’ right hand man in seeing actual justice and honor done right and there’s very few others besides me who wish for such principles to rule here. Without me to act as a dam, the pent up vile waters would come flooding through.”

 

Her eyes widened at such a slandering of Gulltown’s nobility.

 

“’Tis the truth. Gold has replaced virtue in many men’s hearts.”

 

At this Jocelyn felt her heart grow heavy as she realized the mistake that she and his mother had done him in the wake of his father’s death in the rebellion.

 

With great reluctance she continued, “Ned… I hate to say this, but I fear I must. Gold has always held a certain mad place in men’s hearts. This is no new development… your mother and I were just fond of your... _idealism_ that we didn’t wish to see you part from it. It was wrong of us, I can see that now, but—”

 

“What is wrong with actually living up to one’s own standards?” challenged her Ned, his grey eyes narrowing.

 

Holding up her hands as if in defense, she added, “Nothing, it is ideal to be sure, but what is ideal is hardly how the world works. You should know that.”

 

Her Ned countered, “But that is precisely what Lord Denys wants of me in my position and I’ve given it to him whole-heartedly, and he's rewarded our family quite well.”

 

Mayhaps it was too late to fix this mistake. Gods help the smallfolk of Ashdown.

 

“If Lord Denys supports you, then I pray he continues to live in the Eyrie many more years to come,” sighed Jocelyn, wishing the unpleasant conversation to be over and done. If he did not wish to return to Ashdown, that would be that... in the end she never could deny him what he wanted for too long.

 

Ned seemed slightly recalcitrant and mayhaps that is why he offered, “I’ll send Denys with you.”

 

“What?” asked Jocelyn.

 

“Your great-grandson. He deserves to be raised in a place where he can run about and ride a horse when he has the desire to. I want him raised at Ashdown by you, Nana.”

 

Stunned, she replied, “I… am honored, but what does Keeva have to say about it?”

 

Her Ned grew quite serious as he continued, saying “She and I agree on the matter. The city’s no place for a child, like Denys. Besides, even if I choose to live and do battle with vice in Gulltown, what’s to say that he should as well?”

 

“I will of course take him in and raise him when I return to Ashdown, but I must attend to my own business first.”

 

With a look of surprise, he questioned, “You’re truly going there?”

 

She rebounded with, “I said I would, didn’t I?”

 

“Aye… but Nana, you’ve nearly seen six in seventy namedays. The only others I can think who are as old as you are Lord Frey, Old Ser Willem Darry, and the Queen of Thorns," he said as he counted off on his fingers.

 

“Oh pish posh, I am not nearly as old as that weasel, and the Queen of Thorns was still a child yet to flower when I was wed. You pick very poor examples of my generation. Though, I do admit to having danced once with Ser Willem Darry at a tournament once. We are of age he and I… He was quite a handsome young man in his youth—though you’d hardly think of it to look at him now I suppose. He made your grandfather rather jealous once…” and she was off remembering the night of the Tourney at Maidenpool that had been held in celebration of a victory of some sort in Aegon’s reign. She could hardly recall which one though.

 

Ned looked at her as if she had just admitted to having slept with Ser Willem.

 

She countered, “Oh don’t look at me like that! Your grandfather often went through his moods and I enjoyed japing with them just a bit to pull him out of them. The coupling that came afterwards was always well worth it—in fact, you wouldn’t be here had Ser Willem not played his part, for I got with your father that night.”

 

Her Ned continued to look incredulously at her, so she thought to spare him the tale that many a young girl had thought to run away with young Ser Willem, but had proven far too much a gentleman to be tempted by the offers. The young did hate hearing of the sex of the old, though how they expected they came into existence without such tales was beyond her reckoning anymore.

 

When her Ned had at long last recovered his ability to speak, the serving girl had arrived with the cordial, which Jocelyn was rather eager to take at that point.

 

_Gods, when did he become such a prude?_

 

She set sail from Gulltown not long after, accompanied by young Denys who Edwyle was eager to see out of the city as soon as possible. The lad, who was his father in miniature, knew not when to sit still or be quiet—always rushing about and poking his head into every nook and cranny of the new Northern ship which did not require oarsmen. The journey was much faster than she had expected, just as soon as she had adjusted to life aboard ship with her young charge, they had arrived in the North and were due to visit Newcastle—a newly built white stone castle that had replaced the Wolf’s Den as the seat of House Manderly. When she had left the North, the castle had been in its earliest stages of being built, but to see it now in all its finished glory, Jocelyn was amazed, and a bit bedazzled by how white everything seemed. It reminded Jocelyn of walking through a field all covered with snow and ice—a rather beautiful sight to behold that made her wish to be in Winterfell all the more. She spent the evening meal speaking with the rather rotund Lord Wyman about his father, Lord Wylbert, who had been one of her brother Edwyle’s closest friends growing up—and each cementing that bond by taking one of the Locke twins to bride. Little Denys meanwhile entertained himself by asking questions of Wyman’s green haired grandson, Wylbert—who Jocelyn was happy to say took after his namesake in appearance from what she recalled. He apparently was visiting his grandfather for his nameday, but otherwise was one of Ser Brynden Tully’s lordlings under his charge—and apparently a friend to the prince and his companions.

 

“Is your hair truly green?” piqued Denys curiously as Jocelyn cut his fish into smaller pieces for him.

 

With a sly grin to his elder sister, Wylbert stopped cutting his own fillet and leaned in conspiratorially over the table to answer, “Aye, and like a plant I need water it and put it in the sun to have it grow.”

 

“So it’s not growing now?” asked a slightly confused Denys.

 

“It isn’t now… but on a day when it’s raining and the sun is shining, I could come home with an extra foot’s worth of hair that I have to cut off. It comes from having the blood of Garth the Greenhand you know… he was part plant they say,” and with an added smirk he ate a piece of swordfish fillet.

 

“It can’t rain while the sun is shining,” protested Denys, who of all the ridiculous things Wylbert had peppered in his jape had chosen the one real thing to object to.

 

“In the North it does,” japed Wylbert.

 

His elder sister Wynafryd rolled her eyes at him, she, like her brother did not take after their father and grandfather in terms of their weight, both as skinny as the Manderly boy Jocelyn remembered sparring with her brother.

 

“Nana, does it?” asked Denys, appealing to her as the ultimate authority of truth like his father had in his youth.

 

“It can… but it can in the Vale as well. It’s not that extraordinary a thing… it need only rain right on top of you, while the sun peeks over on the horizon.”

 

“Oh…” said Denys as if he only slightly believed her as she handed over the fork to him so he could eat the pieces she’d cut for him.

 

The journey to Winterfell from White Harbor was almost lazy as they traveled up the White Knife by barge, getting off at Castle Cerwyn before departing for Winterfell on horseback. It felt good to once again be in the saddle again—though she kept at a slower pace than she wanted with her retainers, guards, and Denys to keep in mind. Soon the towers of Winterfell began to rise in the distance and Jocelyn felt a sob almost rise in her throat. It was as though she were at long last coming home.

 

As their party approached the trumpets sounded and a party from Winterfell consisting of Lord Ned Stark and a few of his guards departed to meet them. Seeing him once again, she was taken aback to the young boy in the Eyrie’s courtyard, gods was he a Stark in every sense of the word, and accompanying him was one of his younger sons who looked like him in miniature.

 

“Great Aunt Jocelyn, I hadn’t thought—” he began, clearly caught off guard.

 

“That I still lived? I assure you that I am as hale and healthy as e’er I was. But mayhaps that explains why I failed to receive notice when Brandon died.”

 

“When Brandon… you mean… gods, I didn’t---he was your half-brother after all—”

 

Her great-nephew was clearly caught for words.

 

She should have felt more offended, but then how was he supposed to know of her relationship with Brandon? “He was my babe of a brother. I raised him after his mother died, of course we were close!”

 

The boy at Ned’s side on a pony of his own sniggered in response to this.

 

“And what do you find so funny, lad?” she snapped.

 

“I’m not a boy!” protested the child, and Jocelyn recognized the features of cousin Lyarra come again, her uncle Rodrik’s daughter born again.

 

“My apologies…” and awkwardly she looked to her great nephew for the name of his daughter.

 

“Arya,” he supplied her.

 

It was then that Jocelyn introduced Denys who had for once in his life had sat completely still and looked shocked upon meeting his Stark cousins. Her four nameday old great-grandson found Winterfell a delight to behold simply for the number of other children there were to play with, and was just of age with Eddard’s youngest child, a daughter named Sansa, who blushed every time Denys volunteered to play Knight with her and rescue her from one of the Snows who played at being a monster.

 

Eddard for his part apologized profusely for his misstep, and took her to the lichfield where Brandon had been buried. There she found his grave marked by a simple stone inscribed with _“Here lies Brandon Stark, son of Lyanne Glover and Lord Willam Stark.”_ And for the first time since learning he had died, she let go of all the anger she had felt, angry that her babe of a brother hadn’t written any letters, angry that Rickard’s Ned had forgotten she had still lived, angry that she’d allowed herself to become mostly shut up in Ashdown Keep ever since Ryden’s death, and simply stood there and cried. In the eerily silent distance a raven cawed and a lonely wolf from the wolf’s wood howled, and it began to snow a light summer snow.


End file.
